


the three stages of death by kamaitachi

by newamsterdam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spirits, Arranged Marriage, Assassination Plot(s), Curses, Explicit Sexual Content, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Kamaitachi Sakusa, M/M, Political Alliances, Ritual Sex, Temporary Character Death, kitsune atsumu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26632474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: The sun is high and the sky is clear, and yet rain still falls when the fiercest warrior of the kamaitachi, Sakusa Kiyoomi, marries the pride of the kitsune village, Miya Atsumu.Sakusa would have never chosen Miya Atsumu. But then, none of this— not Miya Atsumu, not the marriage itself, and certainly not what Sakusa must do now— are his choice.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 227





	the three stages of death by kamaitachi

**Author's Note:**

> this au is based on the haikyuu!! namjatown collaboration art, as seen [here](https://imgur.com/ZhCxzr2). most characters' yokai forms are taken from this art.
> 
> i've loosely based this storyline on the associated legends and myths of each yokai, but this story is in no way meant to be a correct or expert depiction of japanese folklore and culture. it's used as a jumping off point for a fantasy au. 
> 
> finally, this fic contains sex with what i consider "contextual consent." the characters each have their own reasons for consenting, but it isn't straightforward, romantic consent in the traditional sense. the characters involved are not coercing each other. however, if this makes you uncomfortable, certain scenes of this fic may not be to your taste.

The walls of Death’s Palace are high and warded with numerous layers of magic. It will take the two oni princes hours to break through them, and their methods are never subtle. From the first strikes of their clubs against brick and aura, the King will know they have come for him. If they want to announce their presence and ruin any chances of succeeding, the oni princes will start their barrage, and the King will destroy them all before the wall has even a single crack.

Though their methods are obvious and forceful, the oni princes are not usually stupid. Instead of raising their clubs, they lift their eyebrows at their companion. 

He is the only kamaitachi in their small group, and he came tonight knowing which of his skills would be useful. Kamaitachi thrive in the wind and shadows. They move silently, unhindered by barriers of any sort. 

“It will mean you go alone,” Ushijima, prince of the red oni, says slowly. 

“You won’t have any backup, if he catches you,” Bokuto, prince of the blue oni, adds. 

Sakusa, prized warrior of the kamaitachi, lifts his chin and shrugs. He knew the risks before he came here. If he wasn’t willing to face them, he would not have come at all. 

Before either prince can offer advice, or a wish for good luck, a whirlwind surrounds Sakusa and he disappears. 

Nothing feels freer than travelling as the wind. Sakusa makes his way through the smallest spaces in the brick walls, into the fragrant gardens of the palace. Red camellias and spider lilies cover the ground, a sea of petals so deep in color that they might be made of blood. The moon shines overhead, long shadows extending out from the clustered pagodas and ridged walls. Sakusa will need as many advantages as he can get, and though the shadows are deep the winds are mostly still. 

Death’s attendants walk across the canopied walkways, unbothered by the late hour. They wear white robes, and barely notice when Sakusa’s wind blows past their hems and draped sleeves.

As prepared as the oni princes were, they could not tell Sakusa where the King would be. Does he sleep through the night as a human does? Or does he prefer to conduct the courts of death at the midnight hour? No yokai can say for sure, until it is too late to come back and tell of it. 

Sakusa is certain he will know the King when he sees him. He travels in lingering spirals across the gardens and over the rooftops, searching for the presence that has power over life and death, and even the souls of yokai which hover at some place in between. 

The palace is laid out in concentric shapes, each layer getting closer to the King’s inner chambers. Sakusa comes to rest on one slanted rooftop, catching his breath. 

He’s dressed all in black, sickles sheathed at his waist. His brown tail curls around him, close enough to be indistinct in shadow. Sakusa tugs his black mask up over his nose and mouth, his dark eyes gleaming down upon the King’s innermost garden. 

A cherry blossom tree grows at the center of the garden, its petals a vivid red rather than the natural soft pink. A stone bench is positioned just under the tree, and upon it sits a tall, slender figure in robes that pool like moonlight around him. 

_Target sighted_ , Sakusa thinks with grim satisfaction. Gloved fingers curl around the handle of his scythes, and he summons the wind, preparing to strike. 

A powerful gust carries him from over the roof to the cherry tree, and Sakusa pushes himself through the boundary between the wind and the physical world, extending one hand with claws sharp enough to kill. 

“Oh, there you are,” a bored voice says, loud enough to carry in the hollow darkness of the courtyard. “I expected you hours ago.”

The King can be speaking to no one else. Somehow, he knows Sakusa is here, even though Sakusa barely has physical form at the moment. 

He freezes mid-transition, the wind stilling. He almost hits the ground before he grits his teeth and orders his heart to still its frantic beat. He will only have one chance. 

The wind blows without care for what it will drift past, what it might knock over, anything it might destroy. Sakusa has always found peace in a similar outlook. He lets the rest of the world slip away and focuses on one thing— the pale column of the King’s neck, framed by the high silver collar of his robes but otherwise unprotected.

Sakusa bites down on his tongue, tastes iron as he leaps forward and lashes out with one scythe. The blade gleams in the moonlight, silver and perfectly reflective. In it, Sakusa sees his own liquid-dark eyes, and…

A pair of perfect lips, curving into a smile. 

The world turns upside down. Sakusa falls out of the air and onto the ground, his head striking the stone bench. He lands in a crumpled heap on the ground, crushing fallen red petals as his ears ring. 

Somewhere above him, the King lets out an ugly, teasing laugh. 

“Oh? And here I expected more grace from Itachiyama’s best.”

Pride, usually a cool constant, bursts to life like a flame in Sakusa’s veins. He scrambles on the ground, looking for his scythe. He looks up, his mind too frantic to be frightened when he sees the King holding his own weapon.

The King has graceful hands, pale and long-fingered. One clutches the leather grip of the scythe, while the other dances over the blade on careful fingertips. 

“You know,” the King says casually. “Most would _die_ for an audience with me. Don’t you have anything to say?”

Even his voice has the lilt of laughter, and it scratches at Sakusa’s temper like a rock would against his skin. Sakusa has nothing to say to the King. What could possibly be left to say, after generations of the stalemate between the Court of Death and the yokai kingdoms? 

“The King should know death as well as the rest of us,” Sakusa says gruffly. 

The King turns to him, brown eyes given an eerie amber glow under the moonlight. “Oh?”

His moonlight-colored robes have been delicately embroidered, threads the color of the sea depicting vines growing into full bloom, flowering, and wilting. Perhaps under the sun he looks more alive, but against the deep blue of the midnight sky he is pale and impossible. 

“And he will,” Sakusa mutters, repeating the mantra that has guided the oni princes and himself through months of planning— planning built upon the work of years and generations before them. 

Without waiting for the King’s reply, Sakusa lunges forward. He may not have his scythe, but his own claws are just as sharp— sharper, when used against living flesh. He extends his arm in the wide arc of a crescent, eyes trained on the vulnerable flesh of the King’s throat.

A cool hand closes around his own throat an instant before he makes contact. The King raises his arm, and Sakusa is lifted up off his feet as he struggles to breathe. 

The King tuts, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Is this really it?” He speaks to the ground, the sky, the very air around them. “All that planning, and one warrior is all they’ve sent?”

Sakusa struggles, but he has no breath to sustain himself, let alone enough to reply. And when the King has him cornered, what should he care that Sakusa is the most skilled warrior Itachiyama has produced in many lifetimes? 

The King shakes his head, hair flipped out at elegant angles to frame his beautiful face. “Whatever shall I do with you? What use is a weasel, once caught?”

Sakusa shudders. He knew the risks. He knew exactly what he was gambling on when he agreed to this plan, when he stepped in ahead of the oni princes. He can have no regrets about what comes next.

He determines that he will not flinch when death claims him. No matter what sort of pain he experiences, he will not give up on his pride or his purpose.

But not even his cruelest imaginings prepare him for what comes next.

The King, still holding him by the throat as though it is no effort at all, leans forward. With his free hand, he gently brushes the dark curls back from Sakusa’s forehead. 

“I thought your people had learned by now,” he says, almost pityingly, “but you weasels are always chasing your own tails, playing at these futile games.”

With that, he presses his lips against Sakusa’s forehead. 

Pain strikes through him like lightning, so intense that Sakusa wishes for death, for anything to make it stop. His limbs jolt and spasm, his stomach clenching, his ribs squeezing together so tightly he’s sure they’ll all crack. 

The kamaitachi always give their prey the dignity and final kindness of a painless death.

Apparently, the King of Death offers no such mercy.

\---

Sakusa lurches in his seat, his lungs aching for breath and his body recoiling as the memory of pain runs through him. He jolts upwards, looking around but not quite seeing, until a strong hand grabs one of his own and squeezes.

“Sakusa? Sakusa!” 

He shakes his head, unable to rise above the waters of the dream threatening to pull him back under. He’s never been scared of pain, and yet the sensations take hold of his body and refuse to let his logical mind free him.

“ _Kiyoomi_.” The voice is a hushed whisper, insistent and worried. The hand squeezes Sakusa’s again— once, twice, three times. The pressure pulses like the steady beat of a heart, and somehow Sakusa’s heart slows to mimic it. 

One beat, two, and three. Breathe in, out, and then in again. 

Slowly, the room comes into focus. There’s expertly-woven tatami on the ground beneath him, white screen walls painted with beautiful watercolor scenes of mountains, lakes, and forests. A low wooden table sit at the center of the room, and paper lanterns lit by magic give the room a rosy glow. 

“You alright?”

Sakusa turns to see Komori Motoya’s kind, worried face. His cousin’s furred ears are perked to attention, his tail curled towards Sakusa should he need more comfort. Komori’s yukata is a brilliant goldenrod, the obi matcha green. 

What Sakusa wouldn’t give for a comforting— and distracting— cup of green tea right now.

Sakusa clears his throat, runs his tongue against his dry lips. “I’m fine. Just nodded off.”

Komori purses his lips. “Yeah, that I noticed. And it wasn’t a problem, until you started shaking like that.”

Sakusa’s cheeks warm with embarrassment. Komori has been a companion since childhood, and a member of his three-man squad among Itachiyama’s forces, besides. There is very little Komori doesn’t know about him, and they should be past shame at this point. 

But where Komori’s tail extends to offer comfort, Sakusa’s curls around his waist to avoid any contact whatsoever.

Komori leans away. “I did think you agreed to all of this too easily. Are all your worries finally hitting you, now?”

Sakusa pulls his hands into his lap, tugging at his gloves. Komori hadn’t pulled them off when he grabbed Sakusa’s hand, but Sakusa busies himself with pulling them up anyway. The long sleeves of his haori cover everything but his fingertips, and the gloves go up past his wrists. 

“No,” Sakusa says shortly. 

Even if he did have worries, he would have considered them before now. And had he considered them, he would have come to the same conclusion— this is his only option.

He lets out a short, resigned sigh.

Komori arches a brow at him, smiling with a teasing lift to the corner of his lips. “Well, then cheer up! It’s your wedding day, after all.”

Sakusa grimaces, reaching around his collar to hide his face with the black mask that isn’t there. He’d been forbidden from wearing it, or any of his typical clothing. Instead, he’s dressed for a celebration, even though he’s gotten away with the gloves and inner robes that cover him up to the neck. 

Komori is still grinning. “See, I know there’s more to this than you’re telling me. You agreed to this easily enough, but you look like you’re going to an execution instead of a wedding.”

Are people typically happy at weddings? Sakusa supposes they must be, though he has very limited personal experience. He stays away from most festivals and celebrations, anywhere that crowds gather. 

Komori leans in, voice softening. “So what is it, then? You know you can talk to me.”

Sakusa shakes his head curtly. “It’s nothing.”

Komori opens his mouth, ready to argue. Sakusa rises to his feet, cutting Komori off as he shrugs his gray yukata back into clean, straight lines. They’ve been sitting too long, and his legs and back ache. 

“You want to check out the village?” Komori asks, also rising. “I thought you’d want to do that first, honestly. And Iizuna-san probably won’t be back for awhile.”

Sakusa shrugs instead of responding, pushing aside the paper screen door and letting them both out into the fresh air. He sucks in a breath, air warm under the sunshine and potent with magic. 

“Wow,” Komori says, echoing the awe that Sakusa can’t let himself feel, “I can’t believe we’re finally seeing Inarizaki up close.”

Sakusa closes his eyes, taking another deep breath. He can’t believe it, either.

\---

Inarizaki, the kitsune village, sits on a peninsula extending out into the vast, dark sea that connects all lands that belong to the yokai. Across the bay, when the sky is clear, the vague points of mountains are visible against the horizon. But those mountains, and the village of Itachiyama that lies nestled between them, are as far away as a dream.

Every pathway in the village is marked by a red torii gate. The foxes can use their particular gifts to activate the gates, using them to slip in and out of the living world as they please. The village itself is full of architecture and customs borrowed from the humans— some in earnest, others as mockery. 

Along the main road, vendors have set up stalls with slanted roofs. A myriad of aromas rise from their wares— the enticing richness of cooked meat and spices, the subtle perfume of various flowers, the sweetness of spun sugar and steamed buns. 

Komori walks at Sakusa’s side, wandering towards this stall and that but never letting Sakusa out of his sight. 

“Here,” he says, rushing back with two circular bundles wrapped in brown paper. “You’ve got to try this.”

There are legends and warnings about accepting food from the kitsune, but Sakusa decides they have no use for illusions and trickery in their own home. And the rice ball Komori is handing him does look delicious. 

He’s just bitten into the soft rice when a shadow falls over him.

“Oh? Have our guests already found the best food in the village?”

The voice has a teasing air, a false sweetness that sets Sakusa’s hair on end. He takes three steps back and reaches for his scythe, all in the time it takes to draw a breath, before remembering he’s unarmed. He has to content himself with shooting a poisonous glare at the intruder.

The fox in question lifts both his hands in a placating gesture, even as his lips curl into a taunting smirk. His hair is bright with the sun beating down upon it, his body surrounded by nine beautiful golden tails. His yukata is a simple maroon, as though he knows the dark color will set off his coloring to its best advantage. 

This is why Sakusa hates kitsune. They’re too beautiful for their own good. 

“What’s with that look?” The fox tilts his head to one side. “Isn’t anyone showing ya around, Itachi-san?” 

Komori cuts in, his expression polite but guarded. “No, not yet,” he says smoothly. “Our leader and yours are still meeting, so we decided to explore on our own.”

“That won’t do,” the golden fox says, responding to Komori even though his gaze stays on Sakusa. “Ya should at least stop for a full meal with us. Right, Samu?” 

Back at the rice ball stall is another fox— just as bright, but his tails are a glimmering silver instead of brilliant gold. 

He blinks. “Ya can, if ya want.” He doesn’t seem to care much, one way or the other.

But Sakusa’s entire body is tense as he looks between the gold and silver foxes. His hands clench, his heart pounding against his chest, his mind racing to figure out if he’s been caught in an illusion and how he can get himself free.

Komori cuts straight to the point. “Do all kitsune have the same face?”

The silver fox sighs and shakes his head, while the golden one lifts his face skyward and lets out a barking laugh. 

“Oh, were ya not expecting this?” the golden one asks, still laughing. “And here I thought everyone knew about us, Samu. We’ll hafta work more on our reputation.”

The words should put Sakusa at ease, but instead he’s more on edge. He looks between the two foxes. “You’re the twins,” he decides.

The golden fox claps his hands together twice. “Very good, Itachi-san! What was yer first clue?”

“Tsumu,” the silver fox calls, chiding. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m not,” the golden fox declares, lips curling into a pout. “We’re making good friends already, right?”

“Er,” Komori says.

“No.” Sakusa’s still holding a half-eaten rice ball, and feeling distinctly naked without his scythes at his waist. 

The golden fox sighs. “Okay, okay. I shoulda introduced myself first, right? Well, that guy over there is the Ginko, Miya Osamu. And I’m his elder, better, more powerful, and much more handsome brother, the Kinko. Miya Atsumu.” 

Komori is blushing. Sakusa is turning red, too, but for an entirely different reason. 

“And the two of ya are…” Atsumu prompts. His tails curl around him expectantly. 

“Leaving,” Sakusa says shortly. He grabs Komori by the elbow and leads him back down the path, the way they’d come. 

“Sakusa,” Komori complains, though he has the presence of mind to keep his voice down, “That’s—” 

“ _Hey_.” 

Sakusa stops short as Miya Atusmu reappears in front of him— either he’d willed himself to another spot on the path, or moved too quickly for Sakusa to see. Neither option is reassuring. 

Atsumu shakes his head, fists against his hips as he leans forward. “Yer the guests in our home, y’know? The least ya can do is introduce yerselves.”

Sakusa’s head is buzzing as though he’s beset by a cloud of flies. Atsumu has a casual air about him, even though he’s acting insulted by Sakusa’s behavior. Like this is all a joke, some mockery of the more serious deliberations going on between their leaders at this exact moment. 

“There’s really no need to get upset,” Komori says, diplomatic as ever. “Atsumu-kun, I’m sure you’ve realized that we’re from the Itachiyama delegation. My name is Komori Motoya, and this is—”

Atsumu runs his tongue across his lips, and when he smiles vulpine fangs are visible over his lower lip. “Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he says knowingly. “The weasels’ great champion.”

“That’s right,” Komori says, voice squeaking a little with surprise. “Although, I suppose you would know that, after all—”

“Nothing to say to me, Kiyoomi-kun?” Atsumu asks. He frowns, smacking his lips like he doesn’t like the taste of his own words. “Nah, that’s not right. Kiyo— no— _ah_.”

Sakusa has many things he’d like to say, and none that are appropriate for this moment. 

Atsumu smiles again, something about his expression as elusive as a cloud of smoke. “Ya got a little rice on yer chin, Omi-kun.” He reaches out and makes to rub the crumbs away. 

Sakusa acts on instinct. He grabs Atsumu’s wrist in one gloved hand, twisting it even as he moves on the balls of his feet so that he’s behind Atsumu. Atsumu’s arm bends at a painful angle, raised up over his back as he is forced to his knees. Sakusa gets his free hand to the base of Atsumu’s neck, holding his face down against the dirt. Golden tails twitch around him like a sea of grain blowing in the wind, and he steps on one with particular prejudice to hold it in place. 

“Sakusa!” Komori yells. 

Atsumu lets out a labored laugh, his breathing heavy with the pain he must’ve felt when Sakusa pulled his arm nearly out of its socket. “Omi-kun likes to play rough,” he says, his playful tone gone sharp.

A few feet away, Miya Osamu sticks his head out beyond the wooden panelling of his stall to see what’s happening. 

“Don’t worry!” Komori calls out. “I don’t think Sakusa meant to hurt Atsumu-kun.”

Osamu waves him off. “Whatever. Just don’t kill ‘im, okay?”

“Fuck ya, too, Samu!” Atsumu spits back at him, lifting his head against Sakusa’s grip on his neck.

“Sakusa,” Komori hisses, elbowing him. “Let go!”

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to let all the energy and taunting and power that Miya Atsumu is go free and uncontrolled. But he knows Komori is right. 

Taking a deep breath, Sakusa lets go of Atsumu and pushes himself back, making sure there’s enough space between them that even Atsumu’s tails won’t be able to reach him. 

Atsumu grunts as he pushes himself to his feet. He cradles his arm against his side, his golden hair mussed with dirt and a painful red scuff standing out against his cheek and chin. 

“Not even gonna help me up?” 

Sakusa blinks. “Why should I? You have legs.”

Atsumu huffs a breath. “I didn’t expect ya to be so rude, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa grimaces. “Don’t call me that. And don’t touch me.”

Atsumu sighs and rolls his eyes. “That’s a little harsh, don’t ya think?”

“No,” Sakusa says succinctly. 

Atsumu juts out his chin, hands back on his hips. “Hmm, ya think so? I mean, yer marrying into the family, aren’t ya?”

“Apparently,” Sakusa says. 

Atsumu presses his lips together and shakes his head. “So maybe try and make some friends, instead of suplexing people?” 

Komori chokes on a laugh, and Sakusa turns to glare at him. 

“What?” Komori whispers back. “You are pretty bad at making friends.”

He knows that. He has always known that, and for the most part hasn’t cared enough to change his behavior. But he’s going to be living in this village from now on. He’s going to be married to a fox just like Atsumu. He’s going to be living among a people who are almost completely unknown to him, and who he’s thought of as his enemies for most of his life. 

“No one said I had to be happy about it,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu’s expression twists, his deep-set, golden eyes flickering with a dark emotion. He sticks out his tongue. “Ya really have no idea how lucky ya are, do ya? People’ve done some crazy things, all for the chance to marry a fox.”

“After you cast illusions on them,” Sakusa points out. Kitsune are tricksters and cheats. They bewitch mortals into marrying them to lure them back to the world of yokai. 

Atsumu shrugs, then waves his fingers in front of Sakusa. “Do ya want an illusion, too, Omi-kun? I could turn your fox bride into whoever ya want them to be.”

Sakusa flinches. What a hideous idea, even if there was someone he wanted to marry instead of his unknown fox bride. 

“No,” he says, his voice hushed but forceful. “I’d rather know exactly what I’m getting, when it comes to your kind.”

Honestly, he’d rather everyone he interacts with be as straightforward as he is, himself. Forget illusions; he’d rather people couldn’t lie to him or trick him at all. Even as a kamaitachi who operates in the shadows, he makes sure his victims can see him right before he strikes. There’s an honor in that, and an honesty. 

Atsumu laughs again, though now the sound is more exasperated than playful. “Suit yerself.”

“We should get back,” Komori says, tugging at Sakusa’s sleeve. 

Atsumu flashes a wide grin. “Go on, then. I’m sure I’ll see ya at the wedding.”

\---

Aside from foxes bewitching mortal brides, the yokai don’t often hold formal weddings. They don’t need them for reproduction— some yokai are born of dead spirits, others of parents’ wishes and longing, some by more conventional means. Each group of yokai have their own traditions for raising their young, and very few of them rely on human-like family structures. And certainly no yokai has ever needed the permission of marriage before sex.

No, weddings are more ornate, ceremonial things. If a powerful yokai wishes to share their power with a mate, they might perform a marriage. If the King of Death were to take a consort, for instance, the marriage would be something every spirit would rush to attend. 

The kamaitachi had suggested this wedding to the kitsune. It’s a symbolic gesture of the long-sought peace between the two people, and also a solid, political bond to enforce their new alliance.

“You know, as far as high-ranked people go, we don’t have much,” Iizuna-san had said, when he’d come to talk to Sakusa about the alliance. “No royal families like the oni, just the warriors we’ve always relied on.”

He winced, and Sakusa couldn’t help but mirror the expression. The kamaitachi forces are weak from countless generations of war. Even Iizuna-san, once the strongest of them, now walks with the assistance of a cane that can’t hide his pronounced limp. 

“But you, Sakusa,” Iizuna-san had continued, “You’re a force known across the yokai lands. Ushijima and Bokuto consider you their equal. You may not be the leader of our people, but you’re our most prized warrior.”

Sakusa shifted uncomfortably. He knew Iizuna-san’s words were true, but he’d never asked for such renown. He’s always just wanted to put everything of himself into his skills and goals, and never content himself with less than his best. 

“I know,” he’d said. 

Iizuna-san smiled wanly. “Look, if I had to choose a diplomat, we both know it wouldn’t be you. But the foxes won’t accept anyone who isn’t worthy of them and what they’re offering through this alliance. So…”

“It has to be me,” Sakusa said. 

Iizuna-san nodded, bracing as though expecting a fight. 

But Sakusa merely nodded. “I understand. I won’t object.”

\---

Komori and Iizuna-san both help Sakusa prepare for the wedding. He insists on bathing on his own, promising to apply the perfumes and adornments expected of any bride or bridegroom.

He returns to the chambers the kamaitachi have been given, dressed in inner layers of black and white that cover him from neck to wrists to ankles. 

Komori wrinkles his nose. “Please tell me you’re not going to let him wear a mask to his own wedding,” he says to Iizuna-san. 

Iizuna-san rolls his eyes. “The kitsune would never allow it— they’re so tricky themselves, they might think we’re hiding someone else under the mask.” 

Sakusa purses his lips. “I wasn’t going to wear the mask,” he says stiffly. But he reaches for his black gloves and pulls them on, glaring away any objections.

The style of wedding attire is borrowed from the mortal world— a black underrobe, Itachiyama’s crest embroidered in gold across the chest; a black haori revealing Sakusa’s gloved hands; and black-and-white striped hakama. Sakusa pushes Komori away when he reaches for Sakusa’s hair, and tries to tame the messy curls himself. He pushes his hair to one side, blinking at his reflection in a polished mirror.

His brown-furred ears peak out from behind his hair, his dark eyes glazed with a layer of resignation. Two moles dot his forehead side by side, disturbing the otherwise perfect symmetry of his face. He frowns, lips pulling down in only one corner to further disrupt what might have been a handsome face. 

“Please stop looking like you want to kill someone, or yourself,” Komori pleads, fastening white accents to the outfit. He’s kept his own yellow yukata, wearing a golden fan at his waist and a spring of yellow flowers behind one ear. 

“Only if the other foxes aren’t like that one,” Sakusa says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Iizuna-san has only said good things about Kita Shinsuke and Ojiro Aran, the leaders of the village. But both of them had been cagey about the identity of the fox bride. 

“It’ll be fine,” Iizuna-san says. He’s dressed in the reverse of Komori’s colors, with a deep forest-green yukata and dull gold obi. The long drape of his sleeves partially hide the sickle-shaped cane he relies on. “I mean, they are right, in a way. Who wouldn’t want to be married to a beautiful fox?”

And all the kitsune are beautiful, and mysterious, and magical. It isn’t hard for them to cast illusions on others of desire and want, even love. 

“It doesn’t matter how they look,” Sakusa scoffs. “Like I want to listen to an idiot like that one for the rest of my life.” Not to mention the other duties this marriage will require of him.

Iizuna presses a hand to Sakusa’s shoulder, even though he has to lean up slightly to do so. “Look, the kitsune wanted a great warrior to marry their most talented fox, one bursting with magic the entire village relies on. I’m sure that’s someone who understands the gravity of the situation, and will act accordingly.”

“Yeah,” Komori agrees, offering Sakusa a reassuring grin that turns cheeky. “So it’ll probably be a boring marriage with two people who are both resigned and grumpy about it.”

\---

Inarizaki’s largest torii gate sits out in the bay. As the tide rises and falls, more or less of the gate is submerged beneath the blue-green waves. A large wooden shrine is built over the beach, suspended over the waves until high tides, when the floor disappears into the sea.

Sakusa sits at the head of the wooden shrine, the cool sea air blowing around him. Komori sits to one side, and Iizuna stands back, leaning against a pillar. He can’t fold his bad leg properly to kneel, and the attendant kitsune smile enigmatically when he refuses the seat they offer him. 

The only sound is the slow rhythm of the sea, and the matching heavy beat of Sakusa’s heart. 

Finally, from the far side of the shrine, the delegation of kitsune arrives. 

There are perhaps seven or eight of them, all dressed in black, white, red and gold. Their fluffy tails sway between their bodies, all in different shades of white, gray, black, red, and yellow. One of the foxes holds a large red paper parasol aloft, shielding the fox bride from view. 

“They really are big on ceremony, huh,” Komori murmurs to Sakusa out of the corner of his mouth.

Sakusa only hums in agreement. Because it is quite the sight— a parade of silk and color and swaying fox tails walking towards him. They are beautiful, light on their feet and filled with a magic that Sakusa’s own people have long since lost. 

At the head of the delegation are the kitsune’s leaders— Kita Shinsuke, a white fox in a dark kimono with gold accents and tails like a gathering of clouds; and Aran Ojiou, tall and serious, with rust-colored tails and light leather armor over his ceremonial attire. 

Sakusa purses his lips. In another life, a more fair life, Iizuna-san would be more than Ojiro Aran’s equal as a yokai general. But the kamaitachi are diminished and needy. They are the supplicants, and Sakusa is the ultimate sacrifice in securing his people’s future. 

He closes his eyes and steadies his breath. All he has to do is marry a fox, and help channel that fox’s magic through the connection that will be born between them. Maybe his bride will have the same tranquil calm as Kita Shinsuke, or Ojiro Aran’s quiet power.

The delegation fans out, three foxes on either side of the aisle. One of them lowers the red umbrella, revealing two foxes standing beneath it. 

Sakusa recognizes Miya Osamu first. Under the sunlight, he shines a silver so bright it’s almost translucent, like the reflection of the moon on a clear day. His lazy gaze is almost unreadable, though even from far away, Sakusa swears that Osamu smirks before moving to one side. 

His fox bride wears a beautiful scarlet kimono, painted with accents of gold, sapphire, and deep blue. Surrounding that blur of red in Sakusa’s vision is the vague impression of the sun’s rays, created by the golden fox tails surrounding the bride. He has matching golden fox ears, and blond hair. His eyes are bright, and his lips are pulled into a grin that is nothing like a mortal bride’s demure smile. And to further marr the image, there’s an angry red scratch across the fox’s cheek and chin. 

“No,” Sakusa says, and he doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until Komori lays a restraining hand against his wrm.

Kita Shinsuke comes forward, bowing in respect to the kamaitachi. “There are many rumors about the twins,” he says, a placid smile fixed on his face, “but we keep the real truth hidden, for all our sakes’.”

Sakusa sees the two foxes— one silver, one gold— and thinks that he finally understands. 

“Together, they make up the core of our village’s magic,” Kita continues. “Between them, though, Atsumu’s got the more precious power. He’s a source of magic for all of us. The kitsune of the sun, a worthy match for the itachi’s great warrior. Don’t ya agree?”

It makes a sickening sort of sense. Of course, someone as brazen as Atsumu is secure in his place in the world, the most precious member of the village.

Sakusa swallows, his throat dry and aching. 

“Iizuna-san,” Kita continues, “Do ya agree that a match between Atsumu and Sakusa-kun will satisfy our terms?”

Iizuna-san glances sideways at Sakusa, assessing the situation.

Sakusa has stood beside Iizuna-san in battle, facing countless foes and felling them all. If Sakusa gives him any sort of sign, Iizuna-san won’t agree to this. He absolutely won’t force Sakusa into this if he doesn’t want it, not even for all of Itachiyama’s sake. 

Sakusa curls his hands into fists, his sharp claws pricking his palms even through his gloves. He draws upon all of his willpower, and instead of signalling for help, he only nods.

Iizuna-san’s sigh of relief is a small thing. He smiles, and says, “Yes, Kita-san. Itachiyama accepts. This will be a great match between our people.”

\---

Miya Atsumu sits beside Sakusa at the low table, beautiful porcelain cups sitting before them. He hasn’t said anything since taking his seat.

“You want this?” Sakusa can’t help but ask, keeping his voice low. 

Atsumu half-turns his head, smirking with his eyes closed. He looks like the fox masks that hung from the stalls in the village; his smile is a sharp thing, utterly disguising the actual thoughts in his head. 

“Are ya a gentleman, Omi-kun? Ya don’t want a bride who isn’t willing?”

Sakusa’s lips curl in disgust. There are plenty among the yokai who take what they want through force, but there would be no need for marriage in that case. 

“If you’re as powerful as you’re claiming, I doubt anyone could force you,” Sakusa hisses back.

Atsumu shrugs. His cheeks and lashes are dusted with gold, his lips painted a inviting pink. His tails curl lazily around him.

“Ah, that’s true.” He nods, agreeing with both Sakusa and himself. “But there’s no need to put all our cards on the table, is there? We don’t know all the reasons why Itachiyama is willing to give ya up, and you don’t know everything we’re gaining from this, either.”

That isn’t quite what Sakusa wants to know. “I didn’t mean the village. I mean you.”

Atsumu’s eyes flash with that particular light again, his expression deep and unreadable. Then he shifts back to a smile, crinkles forming around his eyes. 

“Well, why’re _you_ doing this?”

Sakusa huffs out a breath. There are many answers he can give, but the truest ones are nothing he wants to share with Miya Atsumu. 

“They say no one’s conquered Inarizaki in a thousand years,” he mutters, finally. “Maybe the best way to beat that challenge is to get you foxes to let me in.”

Atsumu snorts a laugh. “Ya know there’s a difference, right? Between what a fox lets ya see, and what’s actually there.”

Sakusa glares at Atsumu, as though the force of his gaze will reveal the truth of Atsumu’s intentions. 

Atsumu waves a hand, his long sleeves trailing. “But ya don’t have to worry. Because we take marriage seriously, around here. If ya go through with this now, we’ll be partners.”

Kamaitachi work in groups of three, or otherwise alone. Sole partnership— sole trust— is not something they offer easily. There’s something enticing about the idea of a true partnership, but it’s equally terrifying. 

Sakusa leans away from Atsumu. “I know what I’m getting into.”

Atsumu spreads his hands. “If ya say so, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa scowls. “Don’t call me that.”

Atsumu shakes his head. “I can already tell yer gonna be no fun at all. Omi-kun.”

A black-tailed fox comes around the tables with a jar of sake, pouring for all the guests and the bridal couple.

Atsumu holds his cup up to Sakusa, and Sakusa takes his own cup and does the same. 

He doesn’t register the taste of the sake, but he does see how Atsumu closes his eyes to savor it, his tongue sticking out to lap the last drops off his lips. 

The sky has been clear all day, the sunlight a constant presence. Yet, as Atsumu and Sakusa drink to their new union, the sky opens up and rain begins to fall all at once. Sunlight pierces through the raindrops, sending glimmers of rainbows reflecting across every surface. 

Sakusa startles as rain hits him, quickly wetting his hair and face. The rain falls into his now-empty sake cup, quickly filling in again.

Atsumu laughs, loud as an old iron bell in a shrine. He picks up his cup of rain water and throws it back, swallowing it down readily. He catches Sakusa’s disgusted look and shrugs.

“It’s good luck, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa hasn’t had the best of luck lately. He glares down at his own cup and sips up a few drops with his tongue. The water doesn’t taste dirty; instead it’s as crisp and pure as anything from a mountain spring. He closes his eyes and quickly sips down the rest.

\---

The festivities continue until the sun goes down, with fireworks lighting up the sky above the shoreline. Finally, an attendant fox leads Atsumu and Sakusa back to the village, up a winding path to a small house overlooking the rest of the peninsula.

Atsumu scrunches his nose as he dismisses the attendant and passes over the threshold.

“What,” Sakusa can’t help but ask.

Atsumu shrugs. “I forgot about this part. I’ve always lived down the hill, in the main village. Next to Samu’s shop and near everyone else.”

Sakusa is infinitely grateful he won’t be surrounded by Atsumu’s family and all the other foxes. Even if he and Atsumu will share this home, at least they’ll have some privacy. Sakusa might even steal a few moments alone with his own thoughts. 

“Feel free to go,” Sakusa says. 

Atsumu huffs, planting his hands against his hips. “Can’t. We’ve got some things to take care of. I know it, and so d’you.”

Oh, he knows. The reason why Itachiyama could only negotiate this marriage by offering up a great warrior— the pinnacle of strength and desirability among his people. 

“I’m going to bathe, first,” he mutters, turning to leave Atsumu alone on the threshold of their new home.

\---

An hour later, when he can’t put it off any longer, Sakusa steps into the inner chamber of the house. His hair is still damp, but he’s dressed in a simple black robe for sleep. He’s kept the gloves and long underthings that keep everything but his face and neck covered.

He turns the knob on one of the glass lamps until an amber light floods the room. The bedchamber is mostly taken up by a low wooden bed, the sheets as rich and colorful as the kitsune’s festive kimono. 

On top of the sheets lies Miya Atsumu. He’s also dressed down, though his silky red and white robes scream for attention while Sakusa’s black ones help him slip into the shadows. Atsumu is on his back, the golden skin of his legs bare where the robes have ridden up. His tails surround him like pillows, keeping his torso raised so that when he blinks at Sakusa, it’s with an angle of condescension. 

“Ya know, usually a bride or bridegroom can’t wait for this part. Getting to bed a kitsune.” He says this lazily, his tails flicking back and forth. 

But Sakusa sees the way his fluffy ears are held to attention, the deliberate way he’s laid himself out. Atsumu is nervous, and he’s trying to play for every advantage he can get. 

“I might have been more eager if I hadn’t met you, first.” Sakusa steps towards the bed. 

Atsumu tilts his head and raises his brows, his expression all challenge. “Ya know, I haven’t heard much about ya, other than the whole assassin warrior thing. I wonder what it’ll be like. Are ya going to take me fast and rough? Or catch me off guard, or—” 

“You talk too much.” Sakusa regards the bed with some trepidation, all the same. The way Atsumu has laid himself out, there’s not much space left. Sakusa crawls over the edge on his knees, finding a spot between Atsumu’s legs. 

Atsumu licks over his lips in rhythmic, nervous repetition. 

“Ya can kiss me, y’know,” he says, voice suddenly hushed. “We’re married, after all.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer him. Instead, he presses his gloved hands down against Atsumu’s thighs. Even through the layers of cotton and silk, Sakusa can feel the strength of Atsumu’s legs, the meaty weight of his muscles. 

Atsumu’s brow wrinkles. “Ya can take off the gloves, Omi-kun. And maybe ditch the robes too, yeah?”

Sakusa glances down at Atsumu with all the disdain he can muster. “You think I _want_ to touch you?”

That, finally, shocks Atsumu into silence. He opens his mouth, cheeks red, but no words come. 

Sakusa shakes his head. He shifts Atsumu’s robes aside and— yes, he’s still wearing his simple cotton underclothes. Good. 

“You better tell me when you’re getting close,” Sakusa mutters.

“What— Omi!”

Sakusa descends upon him, licking Atsumu through his underclothes. Atsumu jolts at the contact, his tails spasming to attention and tickling Sakusa through his clothes. 

Even through the cloth, Atsumu is soft and warm. Sakusa mouths at him for long moments, feeling Atsumu grow hard against his lips and tongue. He squirms under Sakusa’s grip, breath coming from above in breathy laughs. 

“What the fuck,” he gurgles. “Okay— whatever I was expectin’— this wasn’t it.”

Sakusa looks up and raises one brow. Of course it wasn’t.

“Gods— _fuck_.” Atsumu says, when Sakusa works him over with one gloved hand. “Stop looking at me like that.”

_Like what?_ Sakusa wants to ask. He isn’t paying much attention to his own expression. But he keeps his silence, keeping careful watch on Atsumu’s reddening cheeks and laboring breath.

Sakusa doesn’t know if Atsume has ever had a partner before. It wasn’t important to the negotiations, so he didn’t bother to ask. But the way Atsumu starts rocking his hips, the way he goes hard so quickly, the way his clutches at his own tails like he needs something— anything— to hold onto, Sakusa would guess if he has any experience, it isn’t much.

No matter how much he has steeled himself for this, Sakusa is knocked off guard by the feeling of Atsumu growing warm under him. Atsumu bends his legs, his knees coming up to bracket Sakusa’s torso. Sakusa runs his gloved fingers down Atsumu’s thighs, reaching to cradle his balls. 

All this, without ever once touching his bare skin.

“Yer a fucking monster,” Atsumu grits out. 

Sakusa nods; aren’t they both? 

He hollows his cheeks and takes Atsumu as deep as he can, even with the layer of cloth between them. The taste is strange; he can smell Atsumu’s arousal without the saltiness of it hitting his tongue. It’s frustrating, and he pinches Atsumu’s thigh in retribution, even though Atsumu never made this choice.

Atsumu jolts, a low whine caught in the back of his throat. That, at least, gives Sakusa some satisfaction.

Atsumu’s strong hands paw at Sakusa’s shoulders, through the fabric of his black robes. “Omi,” he says. “Omi, ya told me to, so I’m warnin’ ya—” 

Sakusa pulls back, looking down to see Atsumu laid out before him. His silky robes are crushed where they’re pushed up around his hips; his skin is flushed and his hair is messy from his tossing and turning. His tails are curling up, coiling as Atsumu’s arousal builds. Even through his underclothes, he’s hard. The white cotton is soaked from Sakusa’s spit and Atsumu’s precome. 

He’s debauched this fox entirely, Sakusa thinks. But then, isn’t that what he’s meant to do?

When Sakusa pauses for a moment too long, Atsumu growls and squeezes his legs around Sakusa’s waist. 

“C’mere,” he says, half order, half plea. “Get back here and finish what ya started.”

A completionist to the last, Sakusa leans in and takes him in fully. The cotton presses against his mouth, and Sakusa retaliates with the barest pressure of his teeth. 

Atsumu sucks in a breath, his stomach clenching until the curve of it is concave. His toes curl against the sheets, his tails rigid with tension. But what captures Sakusa’s attention and won’t let go is the way that Atsumu begins to glow beneath his skin, a soft golden light that builds and builds as Sakusa bullies Atsumu to the edge with his teeth and tongue. 

“Yer,” Atsumu starts to say, hips bucking, “Yer _terrible_ , Omi-kun.”

It doesn’t sound like a complaint. 

“I know,” Sakusa says in a low voice. He pulls back just as Atsumu comes, his underclothes soaked beyond salvaging. 

Sakusa sits back, careful not to get himself dirty, but a flash of light immediately distracts him.

The light from under Atsumu’s skin flashes brightly, then bursts out of him in small orbs of floating foxfire. The magic flames hover in the air, glowing in every color that Sakusa can imagine, before they disperse into smoke. When they’re gone, the room remains warm and bright.

Atsumu lets his head fall back, letting out an exhausted groan. “Well,” he says, around a thick tongue and rough throat, “At least that worked.”

Sakusa unclenches his hands, his heartbeat slowing with relief. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to complete the ritual, but if Atsumu says it’s worked, then it’s fine. He’s done his duty.

Atsumu rolls over, propping up his chin against his hands. “C’mon, then. How d’you want it, Omi-kun?” He glances pointedly at Sakusa’s groin, where his robes are hiding his own erection. 

But Sakusa doesn’t give him a response. He gets to his feet, brushes off his clothes, and straightens his gloves.

“I’ll sleep in the next room,” he says.

He doesn’t look back at Atsumu.

\---

In the other room, he lays out a futon and stares up at the ceiling as he tries to coax himself to sleep. But even when he shuts his eyes, he’s left with the afterimage of dozens of orbs of foxfire. And amongst the flickering flames, Atsumu with his head thrown back and his eyes shut, lost in ecstasy but somehow still smug about it.

Sakusa turns onto his side and curls in on himself. In the end, he calls on the shadows themselves to blanket him in their familiar presence, but even they can’t banish the brilliance of Miya Atsumu’s light.

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration for the inarizaki kitsune village was heavily taken from [miyajima](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hazhw2_QRMc).
> 
> i always love to hear what you thought!!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/newamsterdame)


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